


transitional places

by summerstorm



Category: Pop Music RPF, Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mattress dips beneath her, and she almost pushes away the palm that comes to rest on her stomach, like she would if she were home. It takes her a second to remember she isn't. Or, she is, but it's not — it's <em>her</em> home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	transitional places

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "lazy Sunday mornings" from abvj.

Taylor feels like she's dancing in her sleep, this shifting motion like waves along her body, pulling her chest high, her shoulders low, stretching out her knees. The lacy edges of her pillow tickle her collarbone when she turns her head into it, feathery cotton trapped between her chin and shoulder. It's one of the first things she bought for her condo, in the same shopping trip she found her new bed. The master bedroom is the first room that became more or less inhabitable, and it's still the only one she actually uses.

She wouldn't, if she had more options; she'd wait for the rest of the apartment to be done so that it would all be new when she moved in. But hotel rooms wear her out — they make her feel like a filthy liar — and her parents' house is her parents' house. She can't ask her parents to let John stay over. Even the thought of it is embarrassing.

The mattress dips beneath her, and she almost pushes away the palm that comes to rest on her stomach, like she would if she were home. It takes her a second to remember she isn't. Or, she is, but it's not — it's _her_ home.

She leans into it instead, and keeps her eyes closed. She makes a little noise that's half deliberate, half unconscious — she does mean to acknowledge John, but she doesn't mean for it to come out almost like a purr. But that's fine. That's fine, because he already knows she sometimes sounds like that, and because next thing she knows the mattress sways again and she can feel him hovering over her, his knees pushing hers just slightly apart.

She doesn't open her eyes when his mouth touches her jaw, sucks light kisses along it. It's good like this. She can hear herself breathe with an awareness she's never had when John was around. She always concentrates so much on other things: what she's doing, what she could be doing, what he's doing to her. How things make her feel is just that: something she _feels_ , not something she's particularly conscious of. She likes being conscious of it, conscious of the way her body's still dancing, a little bit, her stomach heaving under his palm as he moves his other hand to her side, fingers hopping over her thigh and hip before they peel off her underwear, and push it down until it's halfway down her thighs.

The bed shifts again when he rests his weight on that hand, and Taylor sighs.

The hand on her stomach falls to her waist and tightens around it for a moment before he slides his palm higher, cupping the side of her breast and dragging up her tank top, thumb stroking the place where her breast meets her ribcage.

"Awake yet?" he says, vowels a whisper, consonants rough on her collarbone. Her shoulder rolls back in a shiver, and a few loose strands of her hair fall over it. It's almost like tickling, but not the kind that makes her laugh; it's more the kind that makes her upper back shudder again.

As for his question, she's halfway there. She makes a noise, an affirmative hm-hm that fizzles out into a whimper when his thumb moves up, pushing her top up with it. She expects a touch, skin on skin, the pad of his thumb on her nipple, maybe, but she doesn't register his lips leaving her shoulder until he swipes his tongue across her nipple, and the gasp that comes out of her mouth is a surprised one.

She feels oddly young like this. It should be empowering, she thinks, because this is her life now: her own apartment she still has to furnish, her own bed she had sex in last night, waking up with someone else in her bed, wiggling her legs until her panties are low on her knees and she can use her feet to push them the rest of the way off.

But her life now makes her feel like she's too young for it, too, because — because she called the contractor yesterday to add another wing to the condo that it doesn't exactly _need_. Because no one bothered to draw back the curtains and the room is dark behind her lids, because she still can't bring herself to sleep naked, because she's never woken up to someone working her up like this.

It's a good kind of young, though. It's not the kind of young she usually feels around John, which—there's nothing truly wrong with that kind of young, either, but this is different. This is John's breathing on her cheek and her mouth going dry as he slips a finger inside her and nips at the skin around her nipple. She laughs at the second one, just dry air, and this time it's her hips rolling up when her body sways to meet his hand.

It's not a bad way to wake up.


End file.
